“Can you sail a ship?” the giant asked. “Do you know navigation?”
She noticed the burr sounded even stronger, though his Spanish was good. There was an air of a natural leader about him.
Perhaps . . .
Angry muttering. Oaths.
“Take what clothes you can find,” he told those still in the cabin. “Have those manacles struck,” he continued in Spanish. “There’s spirits aboard, but do not take too much or you will sicken.”
The muttering faded, but one man objected. “We will take what we want.”
Her captor stared him down. “We are in the sea lanes. I will have to turn you into sailors if we are not to be taken by the English or Spanish. Then you
will
have a rope about your neck if not worse.”
She saw some turn to one another, obviously not understanding. There were simple translations dotted by crude words she recognized by tone if not by language. Still, they did not leave.
Juliana saw the tension in her captor’s body. He was asserting leadership to a bloodthirsty rabble. She tried to shrink into the wall. She was helpless now without the knife. But she understood what would happen if the devil’s apprentice did not convince them. She would be taken then and there by all of them.
A few hours. Perhaps we will encounter another ship.
One of the mutineers still held her wrist. Her hand shook slightly. She looked up at her captor’s face. It had not the ice of the
el diablo
, but she did not like the speculation in it as he glanced at her and then at the man who appeared to be the rabble’s leader.
Then a third man pushed through the door toward her. He still wore manacles on his wrists and ankles, though the chain linking them was broken.
His face was thin but aristocratic.
“And what is this?” he asked in perfect Castillian Spanish, his gaze roaming over her.
“A woman,” said the apparent leader. “And a wee lass. A servant, I expect. Neither will speak, but the woman shook her head when I asked if she was Mendoza’s wife.” He shrugged. “Mistress, mayhap.”
The Spaniard looked at the man’s chest. “Another wound, Scot?”
“The lass.”
The Spaniard roared with laughter. “You take a ship with this tattered crew, and a wisp of a senorita wounds you.”
The Scot shot him a sharp look.
But the Spaniard didn’t pursue it. Instead, he took his place next to the Scot in an obvious gesture of support.
Muttering, the others started to back off.
“Is there a cook here?”
el diablo
asked of the men crowding into the room, obviously trying to divert them.
One man advanced. Like the others, he was filthy.
“Si.”
“Go to the blacksmith. Tell him I said to strike your irons first. Then prepare some food. You,” he said to another, “ration the spirits aboard. Give every man two cups. No more.”
To another, he said, “Make sure all the bodies are overboard. I want every man here to be dressed and look as if they belong here as crew.”
Charged with duties, the oarsmen backed off, some sullen, some responding to having something to do.
El diablo
said something to the man holding her, but it was in a language she did not know.
Then he turned to the Spaniard. “Now take the two of them to a cabin,” he said in English.
“Why am I so fortunate?” the Spaniard said.
“They do not appear to understand English,”
el diablo
said.
Juliana intended it to remain that way. A small advantage for her.
“I want someone watching the cabin at all times,”
el diablo
added. “And make it clear that anyone touching her—either of the women—will fight me.” Then he turned and left.
Oddly enough, his leaving frightened her. He had prevented a mob from attacking her. His motives might be vile, but he had given her a few hours of grace.
A few hours of life.
If that much. She had wounded him. What would he do to her in return?
I will tend to her myself in good time.
The Spanish oarsman bowed in a gesture that was ironic at best. “Senorita, you and your servant will come with me.”
She paused at the door.
The Spaniard looked at her curiously, then he took her elbow and guided both her and Carmita down the passageway. He reached a cabin door and opened it. Juliana knew it had been occupied by the first mate, the one with the leer on his face every time he’d looked at her.
She did not want to stay there.
“Not here,” she said in Spanish, wondering where that bravery came from. Her heart pounded frantically even as she said the words. “My cabin is two doors down.”
His hand still firmly around her wrist, he nodded and continued down the corridor to her cabin. He opened it and she went inside.
He followed her, his gaze searching the cabin for clues.
“You are Mendoza’s mistress?”
She stood there in shock at the thought. “He is my uncle. He was taking me to be wed in England.” She hated the fear she heard in her voice.
The cool expression in his face did not change. She was only too aware of the noise made by the ends of the manacles he wore. She remembered how only hours ago she’d thought about these same men below and the sympathy she’d felt.
Now
she
was the prisoner.
She did not like it. The helplessness was terrifying.
She watched as he went through her clothing. Blind terror returned. Despite his civilized speech, he wore only a loincloth and his body was marked with scars, new and old.
“Sit,” he said, “while I search for weapons.” His gaze went to Carmita. “Both of you. I would not want to suffer what my companion did. You are fortunate he did not take revenge,” he said, then added thoughtfully, “though he may not be finished.” The words sent a new chill through her.
She eyed the door as he went through her trunk.
“Do not do it, senorita,” he said, obviously reading her face. “I should hate to hurt you. But I will if you try to run or hurt me as you did the Scot.”
He didn’t sound as if he would hate it at all.
“I was frightened,” she replied. “I only defended myself.”
He frowned.
“Who is he?” she blurted out.
“The Scot?”
“Si!”
He shrugged. “I do not know, any more than he knows my name. The guards forbade any speech between us.”
“But he leads you?” She had to know about the man who had her life in his hands. Perhaps she could turn the oarsmen against each other.
But what good would that do her? She would still be on this ship.
Time,
she reminded herself.
Time.
“No one leads us.”
“But you obeyed him.”
“Because it suited me.”
“You are Spanish?”
“Si,”
he said roughly.
“Your name, senor?”
“It no longer matters,” he said curtly.
He finished searching the cabin, then straightened. “I would suggest you bolt your door, senorita, but open it when you hear the Scot. From what I have observed, he does not brook opposition well.”
“What . . . will he do?”
The Spaniard eyed her. “I do not know.”
“You are Spanish. You would leave me to him?”
“I am nothing, senorita. Your uncle made me less than nothing. I have no loyalty to Spain. Or liking for anything or anyone that comes from Spain.”
“Why do you obey him?” she cried out desperately.
“He can sail and navigate,” the Spaniard said. “I need him.”
His voice was as cold as the Scot’s had been.
She had sensed the hatred in her uncle’s cabin, but this was very personal.
She had to break through that hatred. Despite the fact that he, too, was covered with blood and still bound with broken chains, there was an aristocratic feel to him as well as to his speech. Surely he was—had been—a gentleman.
Beg.
She couldn’t. Perhaps more of her father was in her than she thought. These men, despite how they had been treated, had killed her uncle and, as far as she knew, every other living soul on the ship.
She wasn’t going to beg before them. She suspected even if she did, it would do little good.
She was alone on a ship full of men determined to obtain revenge and freedom.
Men who had been without women.
Men who could not afford to leave a living witness to mass murder.
Chapter 7
PATRICK blessed the weather as the
Sofia
sped across the sea, as if—like its passengers—it had been released from bonds. Winds filled the sails and swept away the early morning fog as the ship moved farther from land.
But the two women presented the devil’s own choice.
He’d never expected to take the ship. He thought he would die in the attempt and therefore pushed aside that glimpse of the woman. Only her scream had reminded him of her presence and the danger she presented.
He had no compunction at killing those who had enslaved him and beaten him. Or profited from it. But women? A woman and a mere slip of a lassie?
Patrick stood at the helm, his feet hugging the deck and his body rolling with the rhythm of the ship. He reveled in the clean bite of the salt air, the fresh scent of freedom. He had grabbed a pair of ill-fitting breeches from a mate’s cabin, then returned to the captain’s cabin—and his vital charts—before joining the Spaniard at the helm.
Patrick would need someone to relieve him at the wheel, and the Spaniard seemed to hold the greatest promise. Though he admitted it to no one, Diego seemed to have more experience than anyone else on the ship.
The Scot also had potential. A man as tall as himself and larger despite the meager rations, the MacDonald had been charged with safekeeping the food stocks and spirits, as well as evaluating the motley crew upon which Patrick’s life depended. Patrick wanted to know the skills of each man. Had any sailed before their captivity? Had any cooked? Did any have knowledge of medicine? Were there warriors among them?
Now that all the chains had been struck, he’d watched as each reacted to his freedom. Some were raiding everything they saw. Others were destroying what they could. Then others recognized they had not won their freedom yet and asked what they could do.
So far no one had really opposed his orders, but Patrick knew they’d had no time to fully realize their newfound freedom. Or the dangers that continued to lie ahead.
According to the charts, they had been traveling up the coast of Spain. They were probably near Brest and the English Channel. He had to change course to avoid England and reach the Hebrides Islands.
Most of all they had to avoid Spanish warships, the French and privateers. They might well be challenged, even flying the Spanish flag. The next two days would be crucial.
That led to the next problem. The two women.
What to do with them?
He did not trust the oarsmen. Too many were maddened by rage and deprivation. Many had not been near a woman for years, himself included. He could not deny his own reaction when he saw the two of them. One huddling in a corner, the other ready to kill him.
Because she feared him. He had seen the terror in her eyes despite her attack on him. She was beautiful, or mayhap he had been celibate too long. Her eyes were an unusual color—the blue-gray of a summer dawn ringed by violet—and her hair, pulled back in a long braid, was a dark gold, like the color of wheat. Her back had been rigid with defiance.
But she hadn’t quite controlled the shaking.
What in the hell was he going to do with her?
He didn’t know if he could control the oarsmen. God knew they had gone through enough hell to corrupt them all. And she was a danger to every one of them.
The women—if freed—could hang them all. There were few countries, including Scotland, that condoned mutinies and piracy, no matter the reason. Crews were often not treated well, and one mutiny might lead to others.
“Senor?” The Spaniard asked. “You are worried?”
“We should all be worried.”
“The women?”
“They are a complication,” he said.
“You are understating the matter,” the Spaniard said, looking at the cloth that Patrick had tied around his wound.
“They are safe now?” Patrick added.
“For now. Two men are guarding the cabin. Manuel is there also. I threatened them with a fate worse than death if anyone went inside.” Diego put his hand on the sheathed dagger at his side. “They believe me.” He hesitated, then said. “What do you propose to do with them?”
Patrick shrugged. “God’s blood if I know. I don’t make war of women. I will not have rape, not even of a Mendoza. But there’s a hundred angry men on board who have been without women for a long time. They also know those women represent a danger to all of us.”
The Spaniard’s eyes lit with amusement. “A problem I will enjoy watching you solve. Harder perhaps than taking this ship with chained, starved men.”
Patrick did not care for his amusement. He took his gaze from the Spaniard and turned it toward the sea ahead.
“There is something else,
el capitán
,” Diego said slyly.
“Aye?”
“I found some papers in Mendoza’s cabin. The senorita is his niece and traveling to England to marry an English lord.”
“Who?”
“The son and heir of the Earl of Chadwick.”
Patrick groaned. Not only would the Spanish government be enraged, but now the English one as well. He fought rising apprehension and instead turned his attention to his companion.
“Is your only name Diego?” he asked.
The humor disappeared from the Spaniard’s eyes. “Just so.”
Patrick accepted the answer. Probably many of the oarsmen wanted their names forgotten.
“Take the wheel,” he said.